


Yield

by ScribeFigaro



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Bondage, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeFigaro/pseuds/ScribeFigaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave.  Miroku and Sango, post-series, spice up their married life with some light bondage and exhibition.  As you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yield

 

 

_What if I say I'm not like the others?_

_What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?_

_You're the pretender._

_What if I say I will never surrender?_

_\- Foo Fighters_

 

Sango widened her stance, her weapon in her hand.  Miroku, her husband, the man with whom she pledged to share her life with, stood opposite, some fifty meters distant.  She loved him with all her heart, and with all her heart, she readied herself to utterly destroy him.

 

The odds favored her when she kept him at a distance; if he were sparring Inuyasha or Shippou or even Kirara, Miroku could use his purifying scrolls to stun or weaken them, but this was of course useless against another human.   He could have fallen back on his ultimate ranged weapon - the Kazaana - except for the fact he would never use such dangerous technique on her; and, of course, that weapon and curse had disappeared with Naraku’s death some four years previous.  What had once threatened to destroy the man she could not live without was now nothing more than a faded scar on his right palm.

 

So long as she kept at range, she could deny Miroku any opportunity to attack, while still being able to take him out with a well-aimed throw of _Hiraikotsu_.  Knowing this, at the moment their sparring match began, he raced toward her to close the distance.  In close-quarters combat, Hiraikotsu becomes a liability - an overly-heavy shield, too slow to strike with, and thus she threw it at his legs to make him stumble as he ran toward her, breaking the tempo of his advance.

 

With her sword she could make quick work of him, of course, but before they began they had traded _wakizashi_ and _shakujou_ for more forgiving practice weapons. The wooden practice sword still felt unnatural in her hands; aside from these recent practices with him she had not held a _bokken_ since she was a student taijiya, nearly ten years ago. And, of course, her collection of smoke bombs and poisons, chemicals to distract and numb the senses, were also forbidden by mutual agreement.

 

This situation - sparring at arm’s length, him with a quarter-staff and her with a wooden sword -  tended toward Miroku’s advantage.  Not because he was stronger than her, though he was. Not because he was taller than her, though he was that too. His main advantage was that nearly all his fighting experience was quite applicable to duels – he fought with a staff, and as a matter of course dispatched human enemies with painful, and stunning, but ultimately nonlethal blows. In duels such as this one, where Miroku had set aside his _shakujou_ in exchange for a similarly-sized wooden practice staff, there was little for him to adapt to.  Sango, stripped of most of her demon-hunting tools, was left with very few tactics, and so she needed to expend extra effort into keeping her actions unpredictable.

 

She moved in, preparing a series of quick blows.  She would strike high, middle, and low, and pull back, anticipating a counterstrike with his staff.  She would dodge the thrust, capture the staff in his hands, and disarm him.

 

Falling back to unarmed combat would return to her the advantage, utilizing her a well-practiced style which emphasized acrobatic movement and flying kicks. Miroku’s unarmed skills focused on evasion and redirection of force rather than strikes; he knew how to throw three types of punches at best - none  particularly strong - and the man could not throw a kick to save his life. So long as she could pace herself, it was just a matter of waiting for him to make a mistake, and clocking him with a good roundhouse kick.   She could see it now, one foot hooking under and then upward through his guard, and he would be on the ground. She would straddle him, pin him with her knees, and once certain enough he had regained his senses, she would claim her prize.

 

Ah, damn him and that stick; without the risk of being cut by her weapon he could all too easily hook the weapon with his staff, drawing her forward.  She hadn’t expected him to transition his block into an actual trap, and now she found herself off balance.  He immediately brought the point of his staff into her armpit, pushing her now upward and backward, moving her center of gravity faster than her feet could follow, and she fell hard on the grass, knocking the wind out of her lungs with a harsh groan.

 

He was atop her, straddling her chest, holding the staff only an inch above her neck, slowly applying pressure, and she gripped the wood with her hands. She knew he would not actually hurt her, and that he was holding back to make sure he didn’t actually contact her throat with the staff. But she would not take advantage of that, as it would defeat the purpose of sparring with him, and behaved as if he did indeed mean to choke her, and put all her strength into opposing his weight.

 

He shifted, placing his knees over the staff, forcing her to fight his entire body weight. This of course was only to free his hands while encumbering hers.  With his distraction she attempted a kick, and though she made contact with his back and got a satisfying grunt of surprise out of him, at that amount of leg extension she just couldn’t get enough power behind her foot to knock him off of her.

 

Before she could react any further, he gripped her right arm at wrist and elbow and rotated the limb while releasing pressure on the staff, forcing her to turn to her left, and breaking her grip on his staff, which he simultaneously kicked aside.

 

She was pleased at his developing skill in joint locks. He was good at the staff but a poor grappler, such that when their sparring began with (or devolved to) unarmed combat, he typically lost. He was still a bit slow here, and she knew as soon as he gripped her arm that he meant to force her to lie prostrate. But considering his handicap in groundwork, she delayed a quarter-second before resisting, which to his credit was enough to work her into an untenable position.

 

They stayed still for a moment, breathing heavily. Miroku had her lying facedown in the short grass, her right arm behind her back, his hands holding the wrist tightly.  Although he did not hurt her, she knew the grip was a pain hold; he could easily drive her hand upward along her back until she was in agony. Further, although he was careful to keep his left hand loose on her arm, they both knew that, in a real fight, it was possible for someone in his position to use the combined force of both of his hands to break her wrist.

 

This is all to say that there was no doubt she was in his mercy, and except for that brief moment of delaying her response to her joint lock she had indeed been fighting all out; this was his victory and she should acknowledge that.

 

And yet, she did not.

 

“Sango,” he said. “I haven’t heard you say ‘yield’ yet.”

 

“That’s because I haven’t asked for it, Miroku.”

 

“Do you have some strategy to get free, Sango?”

 

“No, Miroku. I do not.”

 

“Then why would you …”

 

She could turn her head just enough to meet his eyes, the blades of grass tickling her left cheek. She could say so much to him with just a look.

 

_If I have to ask for this, it’s not going to work. It just won’t._

 

He blinked.

 

“Oh,” he said.

 

She could see the gears turning.

 

“Oh!” he said.

 

An adorable blush on his cheeks, the way he flicked his eyes away when he was embarrassed. It took her years to learn how to work him up this way. And she enjoyed this, every second of it.

 

She watched his posture stiffen. Yes, he was starting to get it. He won these sparring matches so rarely; it would be weeks before she could get them in this position again. True, she could throw a match, and maybe convince him, but she’d never convince herself. He had to win fairly. He had to earn his prize.

 

He looked over her, over the back of her taijiya uniform, developing a strategy. Keeping her right arm pinned with his right hand, he reached for the red sash around her waist, slipping fingers into the knot at her right hip.

 

Her belly quivered with the vibration, with the sound of silk rubbing against silk, the knot becoming loose loops of fabric, and then the slight release of pressure on her abdomen as the sash became loose around her body. Again, the feeling of silk, this time against youkai-leather, and now she could feel the sash wrapped twice around her waist, and then only once.

 

“Oh, god,” she whispered, her stomach quivering as his hands brought the fabric around her right arm, wrapping her forearm several times from her wrist to about halfway to her elbow, and tying with a double knot. He shifted to straddle her back, pinning her left arm and drawing it to her lower back. This he tied as well, and working out the slack of her sash that still wrapped around her waist, he firmly bound both of her hands behind her back.

 

His knotwork had improved. Her hands were quite secure, but he took care to tighten the material only over her gauntlets, so that the armor would distribute the pressure and not cut off circulation to her hands. It was not a perfect job, as she could easily release the spring-loaded blade from her wrist and free herself, but of course, the use of these blades were also forbidden by agreement.

 

Carefully he rolled her over onto her back, and she adjusted herself so as not to put too much weight on her bound hands. He straddled her, his expression one of terrible desire. But there was a hesitation in there too; she could feel it.

 

“Miroku,” she said.

 

As her breathing and heartrate began to even out, she felt the sweat of her exertion cool on her skin – her hair stuck to her forehead and to her cheeks and ears.

 

Miroku looked not much better - much worse, really -; he may have been waiting to watch her squirm, but more likely it was to catch his own breath.

 

She furrowed her brows. No. No breath-catching. She couldn’t allow either of them time to think. Time to cool down. No. It must be continuous. He must fight her and win her and then take what he has won.

 

“What the hell are you doing, Miroku?” she spat. “I am your _wife_. You can’t _do_ this.”

 

Too much, too soon.  She wished she could take the words back - he would surely stop this game if she insisted on shocking him like this.

 

There was a sudden panic in his eyes, and this was followed by a flash of realization. Of course, it was reflex for him to care for her, to respect her body, and to heed her when she said “Stop” and “No” even knowing they were playing a game like this. But that reflex could be unlearned. Must be unlearned.

 

_Work it out, Miroku. You’re clever enough for this._

 

“Of course, Sango. I will happily release you. Just as soon as you say ‘Yield.’”

 

She fought a smile. _Yes._

 

“No,” she said. “This is ridiculous. Quickly, before someone comes looking for us.”

 

He reached forward, stroking her cheek.

 

“Just say the word, Sango.”

 

“No. I refuse.”

 

Fingers traced down her shoulder, cupping her left breast.

 

She drew in a breath.

 

Squeezing the flesh through her uniform, circling the apex with his forefinger. Daring her to become so annoyed that she would say the word that would break the spell they had invoked together.

 

“Damn it, Miroku. Would you just untie me?”

 

He leaned close to her ear. Spoke the word she most wanted to hear.

 

“No,” he said.

 

His hand gripped her collar and pulled, the clasps breaking. Her immediate reaction was annoyance - that was a good hour’s worth of sewing to repair - but her breath caught as she realized he was actually ripping her _taijiya_ uniform apart, exposing her breasts to the assault of his hands and mouth.

 

“F-fuck,” she hissed. She was worked up enough already, and more than a little embarrassed that she would be engaging in any sort of sexual act in this state. Not just that she was tied up, but that she was pouring sweat from the exertion of their combat. She should have bathed first, and approached her husband while she was nice and clean and perfumed. But he peeled off her uniform top, licked the sweat off her breasts, sucked hard on her nipples.

 

Her legs kicked at the ground helplessly. She loved his attentions, but not here. Not in this clearing where anyone could come looking for them. Where anyone could see. She loved his touch but hated being unable to touch him. She loved his mouth but couldn’t bear not meeting his mouth with her own.

 

But she would bear the unbearable. That was the _point_. Miroku knew her desires better than anyone, and he would deny her them. Yes. In this one instance, Miroku would not give Sango what she _wanted_. Only what she _needed_. She _had_ to. She had not yet said _yield_.

 

He continued to suckle on her breasts, and now his right hand slipped beneath her armor, fingers stroking her lower abdomen over her leggings, and urgently moving downward. She resisted the urge to spread her legs, forcing Miroku to press his knee between her thighs, prising them open. This thrilled her, as did the feeling of Miroku’s fingers slipping between her legs, firmly stroking the length of her vulva through her uniform. He knew her anatomy all too well; his index and middle finger zeroed in on her center within moments, and her hips began to writhe beneath him, her clit stiffening to his touch, so firm that even through her uniform he could lightly pinch the sensitive bud between thumb and forefinger.

 

He drew himself backward, sitting on his knees, smirking. This was his second victory, was it not? He had defeated her in physical combat. Now, he had turned her own body against her. Her arousal was undeniable.

 

He pulled away, grasped her shoulder roughly, and turned her onto her stomach again. She grunted as her face pressed into the grass.  Pinning her legs with his weight, he clapped his hands over each buttock, gently massaging the flesh.

 

Her own laughter surprised her - a quick chuckle that she couldn’t quite stifle in time.  Six years now, and still he carried this obsession with her bottom, and even as she lay bound and defenseless, he still groped her in the exact same way, fingers together on his palm, stroking in tight, firm circles.  

 

“Sango?” he inquired.

 

“S-sorry,” she said.  “It’s just … that’s how you always grab my butt..”

 

“Ah,” he said.

 

“I thought you’d be a bit more…”

 

“More like this?”

 

His fingers found the seam at her waist where the upper and lower parts of her uniform joined, and tore the garments free of each other, drawing a gasp of surprise from her. Ties snapped. Another hour of sewing, at least. But very well. Miroku ripped her leggings down to her knees, the material tangled with the tops of her armored shin guards just below her knees, hobbling her legs together while exposing her naked backside to his attentions.

 

“M-miorku,” she moaned. “S-stop...”

 

“Stop?  Or yield?” he asked.

 

She licked her lips.

 

“ _Stop_.”

 

At once he gripped her shoulders, pulling her backward, guiding her to kneel on the grass with her back to him, but as she relaxed her knees and lowered herself down, his hand reached between her thighs, cupping her bare mound from behind.

 

“Ah, God,” she moaned. She knelt before him, but his right hand pressed against her, as if to lift her upward.

 

“Sango,” he whispered into her ear. His left hand snaked around her and squeezed her breast, toying with her nipple. She sank down into the support of his hand, letting the flesh between her legs bear much of her weight, letting Miroku's hand apply all that exquisite force against her vulva.

 

He paused a moment, letting her fully appreciate her plight, her womanhood, all salty and sweat from her athletic exertion, fully claimed by Miroku's hand. And then, with the sort of dexterity he seemed to reserve for such acts, his fingers began to tease her labia apart, dipping into the soft folds, stirring her up. Her intimate parts, at Miroku's invocation, spilling out juices with a suddenness and quantity that even after so many years she was mystified, and yes, more than a little embarrassed, at his degree of control over her body.

 

“How is it you’ve become so wet, Sango?”

 

He liked this. Liked how he could so easily make her flow like a faucet. And before she could respond, his finger found its way into her.

 

“Ah!” she cried.

 

She found herself arching her back, leaning back against him, and suddenly becoming fully aware of her surroundings. The open field. The forests around them. Wind bending the trees, birds chattering, insects buzzing. Barely an hour's walk from the village, a fair distance from the nearest path but not nearly far enough to ensure total privacy. The fear of some unwary traveler hearing her cries, hiding in the bushes, witnessing her pleasure. The thrill of being on display. Here, on her knees. Her breasts bared, her leggings halfway down her thighs. Her husband fingering her, rapidly working her toward orgasm.

 

“Come, Sango. Come for me. Nice and loud.”

 

“Ah, f-fuck…”

 

Two fingers now, curling within her, finding her special spots, making her shudder. She cried out as the wave broke upon her, and he released her breast and gripped her shoulder to steady her as she all but collapsed against him in post-climactic bliss.

 

She leaned back against him, his hand still against her womanhood, keeping her warm, waiting for her to be ready.

 

“Miroku,” she whispered. A pleading tone. Forgetting herself, she almost said “please” and “give it to me.” But that would not do.

 

“Miroku,” she said. “That's enough. No more.”

 

She realized this worked well when she could not see his face, when she could pretend his expression was not conflicted. For certain he would have stopped this game if it was too much for him, but she knew also that even if he enjoyed himself, as she wanted him to enjoy himself, he would still hesitate. If she could look into his eyes, she would feel the need to break this illusion and reassure him. But with him behind her, that hesitation only sharpened her excitement.

 

“I’m afraid we’re nowhere near finished, Sango.  That was merely a prelude.”

 

His hands moved to her hips, brushing her outer thighs, moving up and down that region of bare flesh between the torn upper tunic at her waist and the leggings tangled about her knees.  

 

“What - what are you going to do?”

 

“I’m going to take you, Sango.  Right here.  From behind.”

 

His hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pushing her face down into the grass, and then gripping her hips and pulling her ass up into the air.

 

“But not yet, Sango.  First, you’re going to show me something.”

 

“Miroku?”

 

His knees worked between hers, spreading her legs, so that she would have been on all fours, except her hands were behind back so she was forced to support her weight with her shoulders and the side of her face. Not the most comfortable position. But that was the point.

 

His hands gripped her buttocks, thumbs probing the delicate flesh between her thighs.

 

“Mmm” he said. “How beautiful you are, Sango. Right here.”

 

She felt the heat of a furious blush burning her cheeks. She was no stranger to her husband’s attentions between her legs; surely by now there was nothing for him to see that he had not already seen.  And yet, for the briefest moment, she attempted to reach downward, and cover herself with her hands, forgetting her wrists were bound.  Her post-orgasmic warmth mingled with a stab of panic, which quickly mellowed out into what she could only describe as the burn of alcohol in her throat, although not exactly.  

 

“D-don't,” she whispered. “Don't look at me there...”

 

_Yes, Miroku.  Look at me.  Look at the part of me no one else is permitted to see, and tell me you love it._

 

His hand pressed on her lower back, prompting her to arch her ass upward more.

 

“Ah. There we go. Point your bottom right up in the air, Sango, so I can see you clearly.”

 

“Miroku … it’s embarrassing…”

 

_More.  Admire my sex, and make me know the extent of your desire._

 

“Nonsense. Something so beautiful deserves to be on display. Ah, how lovely it is, to see this dusky flesh blush before me.  Even the hair of your mound is perfect; in shape and texture it forms such an agreeable contrast against your delightfully bare vulva.”

 

“Miroku…”

 

She shuddered as he brushed his fingers along her labia.

 

“Even so, your womanhood remains so coy. The petals of your flower are parted only the tiniest bit, Sango. Shall I spread them, and see what they hide from me?”

 

“You can’t...”

 

_More.  Spread me.  I want you to see everything._

 

She felt him readjust his hands, the pressure of his thumbs on her vulva. The feeling of cool air on her wet flesh. His fingers, gentle but persistent, exposing more and more of that flesh to his hungry gaze.

 

“Marvelous. How pink you are, Sango. How wet and pink and utterly perfect you are right now.”

 

“Ah, god, don’t look…”

  

She shivered as he drew fingers up and down the line of her vulva.

 

“How dearly I adore this part of you, Sango.  These warm, delicate folds.  This intoxicating scent.  And here, Sango.  These beautiful inner lips.  So delicate, so pleasing to touch.  But what I love the most, Sango - what thrills me beyond description - is to separate these perfect folds, and see the treasure of your womanhood completely unguarded.”

 

_Yes, even there.  Look at me.  The most intimate part of me.  Tell me that this, even this, is beautiful to you._

 

Her breath caught as his fingers moved along her flesh and brought him to the apex of his inspection of her body.  He was gentle enough, and she was aroused enough, that there was no discomfort, but something in her stomach seemed to flutter.  It was surely his intention, after all, that she have no doubt in her mind she was exposed in the most intimate way possible.  

 

_Yes.  I am defenseless.  More than naked.  Open.  You are the only one I want to see me like this.  You are the only one worthy.  I submit to your attentions without reservation.  There is only one thing I ask in return, Miroku._

 

_Worship me._

 

“Ah, what glory!  The very core of you is fully exposed.  I am delighted to learn, Sango, that from this angle it’s possible to look very deep inside you.  Extraordinary.  Before my very eyes, your entrance fills with your juices, only to spill from you.”  

 

Her face burned crimson.  He stared a moment or two more, and sighed softly.

 

“How unfortunate, Sango.  If we had time enough, I would admire you this way all afternoon.”

 

He relaxed his fingers on her, and placed a hand between her legs for a moment, warming the sensitive flesh before removing his touch entirely, in a gesture she found reassuring and perhaps even deferential.

 

_Now.  It’s time.  I want you._

 

She could hear him fumbling with his robes, and again his hands were upon her, but now she could feel the extraordinary heat of his cock pressing against her thigh.

 

“Ah, that’s much more comfortable. Now, Sango, shall I take you here?”

 

He teased her, brushing his cock against her inner thigh, slowly working his way up to her womanhood.  She moaned when his erection made contact with her vulva, but quickly found herself twitching in frustration as he slid that part of him up and down, side to side, making no attempt to part her folds.  

 

“Hey, come on …”

 

“Patience,” he chided.  

 

He made her bear this a minute or two more before he adjusted his hands, resting his thumbs on her damp flesh.  She held her breath for a moment, in anticipation, and then gasped, exasperated.

 

“Miroku,” she growled.

 

“Hm?”

 

“ _Please_ ,” she hissed.

 

“Please what?”

 

His fingers on her labia, his cock slowly tracing up and down the place where they met.

 

“In-inside,” she groaned.

 

“Inside, Sango?  Inside where?”

 

Realizing his game, being annoyed by it, and knowing she had no choice but to play.  

 

She would not say “yield.”  

 

She could say “stop,” and “don’t do that,” and those were the words she wanted to say, the words she wanted him ignore.

 

But those were not the words Miroku wanted to hear.  

 

She gritted her teeth.

 

“Pussy,” she hissed.

 

“Hm?”

 

“I … I want it.  Miroku.  I want it in … in  my pussy.”

 

“Mmm,” he said. “Shall I spread you open again?”

 

“Y-yes,” she gasped.  “S-spread me.  Ah, god.”

 

The brief chill of air against her suddenly exposed inner flesh was quickly overwhelmed by the heat of Miroku’s cock.  She moved feebly against him; with her arms bound and his hands on her ass it was all she could do to push herself an inch or two closer to his body.  He brought his heat against her, sliding up and down between her folds, but studiously avoiding that part of her that screamed out for him.  Still teasing, like he couldn’t figure out where to put it, like he hadn’t proven, over their years of marriage, he knew every last inch of her body.

 

“Miroku.  Not like that.  Deeper.”

 

Adjusting his hands, he again parted her inner labia, and with featherlight touch brushed his cock against her fully exposed entrance.  She groaned; the closer he came to penetrating her, the more unbearable the anticipation became.

 

“Here?” he said.

 

“There.  Right there.”

 

“What do you want, Sango?”

 

“Please…”

 

“Tell me.  Tell me what you want.”

 

She was on display. Her ass in the air, Miroku's fingers spreading her open. No poetic metaphor, no delicate flower whose petals opened for him. This was not the shrine of her womanhood, not now, not from this angle. This was her husband's thumbs on either side of her vulva, spreading her labia wide, opening the tunnel of her vagina, spilling her wetness.  This was his penis, thick and hard and ready, slick with the fluids that dripped from her, waiting at her entrance.  This was her husband making her ask for it.  Beg for it.

 

“Miroku,” she moaned.  “F-fuck.  Fuck me …”

 

“Mmm.  I will, Sango.  I certainly will.  But first you have to tell me.  What do you _want_?”

 

Her heart pounding.  The bindings digging into her wrists.  The dirt and grass scratching her cheek.  Discomfort.  Annoyance. But all of it acceptable, all of it allowable, so long as he gave her what she wanted.  What she needed.  What he prodded her with, teased her with.  

 

Everything that she was, everything that they were, their love and their marriage, their life together, their love and respect for one another.  Their children and their friends, the life they shared, and the lives they lived before they even knew each other.  In this secret place they made for themselves, for one moment, all of this was forgotten.   _That_ was the point.  To put herself in a position where she could freely admit there was one thing she needed from him.  That this special part of her hungered for him, that nothing else could satisfy her need.  This part of her that was empty, and there was only one thing in this entire world that could fill it to her satisfaction.

 

“ _Cock_ ,” she spat.  “I want your _cock_.”

 

“Yes,” he said, the strain in his voice barely concealing how much his need rivaled her own.

 

His teasing, and her prodigious arousal, had so thoroughly coated Miroku’s erection in her juices that he slipped inside her effortlessly.  She groaned as her body accommodated him, his cock filling her inch by inch.  When he had buried himself entirely he began to move inside her. She started to move with his thrusts, but he gripped her hips and held her still, forcing her surrender to his tempo. Teasingly slow. But deep. So fucking deep.

 

A minute of this or so; she could count four of five breaths where he drew himself out of her, and three or four breaths while he slipped back inside - to the hilt, as it were.  Just as soon as she began to grow frustrated with his slow pace, Miroku began to accelerate his thrusts. She tried to adjust her position, but finding it impossible to balance herself properly with her hands bound behind her back, all she could do was, as best she could, support herself on her left shoulder and the side of her head.  

 

Again she tried to match his thrusts, and again he stymied her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass, forcing her still.  This too thrilled her.  Even in this aspect she had no control.  He would take her this way, as he liked.  He was, always had been, caring.  Attentive.  Always ensuring her climax before her own.  Never selfish.  Always holding back his release until her satisfaction was assured.   But she had freed him of these obligations.  He had bested her in combat, and she would not say “yield.”  And for that reason, her body was forfeit.  Her pleasure a trivial afterthought.  This was Miroku, by the rules they agreed upon, stripped to his bare masculine need.  His need for _her_.  For her _body_.  Taking her.  Using her.  

 

She groaned.  His hands moved again, one gripping her shoulder, the other finding her ponytail and wrapping it around his fist, pulling her head back, forcing her back to arch further, forcing her to receive his thrusts at exactly the angle he wanted.

 

Maybe it was the hair pulling.  Maybe it was the quick up-tempo of his thrusts.  The fact she could not only feel, but hear, the slurp of her wet flesh against his phallus.  The slap of his pelvis against her vulva.  The scent of her sex, wetness coating her inner thighs all the way to her knees.  The complete surrender of her body to him.

 

Maybe it was the fact she was in the middle of a clearing, with her hands tied behind her back, her top torn open, her leggings down to her knees, her husband furiously fucking her into the ground.   Maybe it was the combination of teasing and exposure and helplessness that made her climax so quickly and so hard.

 

She cried out, shuddering, her breath leaving her.  The sensation of his thrusts driving her half-mad, her body responding in unparalleled pleasure.

 

“Ah, fuck,” he said.  He thrust rapidly, his hands again at her hips, the slap of his flesh against hers.  She moaned in satisfaction.  In joy.  The shivers that went through her, knowing her body was in that very moment bringing Miroku to completion.  The knowledge her body pleased him just as much as his pleased her.

 

His throaty growl announced his climax, and she growled with him, her belly tingling in anticipation of Miroku finishing inside her.  His hands gripped her hips, and his thrusts became erratic, pausing on the downstroke, almost pulling out completely before again slamming home.  Each time he reached the furthest extent of his thrust, he exhaled sharply through his teeth, and paused for the barest instant.  A half-dozen times he did this, burying himself to the hilt as he came.

 

_Yes.  Miroku.  Cum.  Cum inside me._

 

She reveled in this, the rhythm of his climax.  The rapid but subtle tensing and relaxing of his hands on her ass, telegraphing not only the extent of his pleasure, but the pattern of his orgasm.  The muscles of his body twitching in time with the pulsating stream that erupted from his cock and filled that part of her that so desperately needed to be filled.

 

His thrusts became slower and more feeble, and then he was still, his breathing deep and slow, his hands holding her to him, his manhood still buried within her.  Another wave of pleasure, of satisfaction, flowed through her.  The afterglow of their copulation.  The knowledge he had spent himself inside her.  

 

They stayed joined like this for a full minute, her breathing echoing in her ears.  Slowly his hands moved up her backside, to her waist, his fingers brushing her palms, then finding her wrists and unbinding them, gently massaging her hands before releasing them.  With one hand she reached forward, resting her weight on her forearm, and with the other she reached backward, gripping Miroku’s ass and keeping him from pulling away.  

 

He chuckled softly, but obliged, keeping himself inside her as he leaned forward, lowering himself and pressing his chest to her back. While supporting himself with one hand, he drew the other around her, cupping a breast.  He nipped gently at the curve of her neck, and whispered in her ear.

 

_“You are perfect.”_

 

Sighing, she arched her back against him, closing her eyes, reveling in the soft, slow movements of his free hand making slow spirals around her chest and belly.  When he slipped out, she twisted around beneath him, laying on her back beneath him.

 

She took account of his naked form for the first time since they began, his hair disheveled, sweat streaming down his neck and chest, his thighs and genitals a glorious mess of their lovemaking.  

 

She reached for him, grasped his head and drew him in for a kiss, making him lay atop her.  His tongue was so warm in her mouth.  His hands so firm on her shoulders.  The muscles of his back so taught under her fingers.

 

The warmth of him atop her kept away the chill of the air for quite some time, but she could feel his skin become cool beneath her fingers, and for her part, the ground beneath her was beginning to feel less like silk and more like dirt against her sweaty skin.  

 

Sango relaxed his grip on his hair, breaking their kiss.

  


Miroku, her husband, the man with whom she pledged to share her life with, rested on his elbows above her.  She loved him with all her heart, and as she allowed herself to become lost in his eyes she found herself overwhelmed with a love for him that both encapsulated this experience and transcended it, a love that merged friendship and romance and sex and trust into this indescribable perfection that flowed between them.

 

Smiling, she nuzzled his ear.

 

“All right, Miroku.  I will yield to you.  But my surrender is conditional.”

 

“I’m open to negotiation.”

 

“First, you will help me repair this uniform.”

 

“Reasonable.  I can’t help but feel partly responsible for the damage.”

 

“Partly?”

 

He smiled.

 

“Second, you will come up with an extremely good story for how my uniform was damaged in the first place.”

 

“Ah.  Yes, I think that sort of thing would play to my talents.”

 

“Third and final.  And this is the most important of all, Miroku.”

 

“All right.”

 

“Train harder,” she said.

 

He cocked his head in the sort of way Kirara tended to do when confused.

 

“If we are to continue sparring,” she said, “I need you to win more often.”

 

_Give me some rope I'm coming loose._

_I'm hanging on you._

_Give me some rope I'm coming loose._

_I'm pulling for you now._

_Give me some rope I'm coming_

_Out of my head_

_Into the clear._

_When you_

_Go_

_I_

_Come_

_Loose._

 

_-Foo Fighters_

 


End file.
